


They're Creepy and They're Kooky

by Neyiea



Series: Pitch Addams [3]
Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: 5+1, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-24 09:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five members of the Addams family Pitch has come across before, and one he knows he'll never forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll edit this in the morning, for now it's time for bed.

He is approaching his third week in the Addams' household. He lurks in shadows and hides under stairs, still unused to constantly having people around, but instead of finding it peculiar the Addams clan are all delighted at his behaviour. He appears to be living up to their expectations of him.

They are a strange bunch, as fond of nightmares as he himself is, but he doubts their captivation over his abilities will last much longer. He's come across many people in his time who enjoyed a touch of fear, granted he'd never met and entire family of them before, but the passion for terror always faded eventually.

He is wandering down a hallway, eyes skimming over countless portraits, the Addamses are incredibly proud of their lineage, when he sees one that makes him pause.

There is a woman in her early thirties, she is pale with raven hair, a family trait, he presumes, and she has green eyes that glint with mischief and dark red, almost purple, lips that are quirked in a sly sort of smile.

Morgan Addams, the plaque underneath the painting proclaims her to be, and Pitch takes a step closer to study her face, sure that he's seen that smile somewhere before.

Then he remembers.

The year is 1888 and he's been drawn to the Whitechapel district of London. There have been three murders and the place is crawling with fear.

Fear of the dark, of the shadows, of bumps in the night. "Jack the Ripper," people whisper to to each other, wondering who could do these terrible things, where he'll strike next, if they'll ever be safe. This place calls to him like a flame to a moth.

The sun has set and everyone who can afford to go indoors does so quickly, but there are some who's trades are more popular after dark, or have been charged with upholding the law, or who are stupidly brave.

He creeps behind officers and drunkards, shuffling his feet and immensely enjoying every time they turn to look around and see nothing but the shadows behind them. He prefers the fear of children, yes, but beggars cannot be choosers, and he will have time to spread nightmares later. He eventually moves on and is both surprised and thrilled when he spies a woman walking down a dark avenue.

All by herself.

He follows after her, purposefully not walking quite in sync with her footsteps, but although the fear is as thick as the smog in the air around them, he cannot seem to feel any coming from her.

He speeds up, expecting her to break into a run like any sane woman would in these dark times, but instead she turns around, gripping a wicked looking blade in one hand, and instead of scanning the shadows she looks directly at him.

She is fairly young, maybe in her early twenties, but for someone her age to actually see him-

A crafty smile slowly curves across her nearly purple lips and she looks all together too pleased with herself for some mysterious reason. She nods a greeting in his direction, and instinctively he nods back.

Then she turns back around and Pitch can't seem to find it in him to go after her.

In the present Pitch trails his fingers over the frame of the painting. He'd almost forgotten about that strange encounter, even though it had been so very odd. A young woman, looking right at him as if she knew who he was...

"Uncle Pitch, are you alright?"

Pitch glanced down, startled, to see young Wednesday Addams looking up at him curiously.

"I am fine, just reminiscing," he answered vaguely, taking some amusement in the way the girl's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

He took one last look at the portrait before slinking off to the basement, not in the mood to answer any further questions.

Though he would not admit it for anything, it is in that moment that Pitch begins to believe that maybe there is more to this family than he thinks.

Maybe he can find a place to belong, among them, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

It is his sixth week with the family and word of him has spread; promoting aunts, uncles and a great number of distant cousins to come and visit.

He does not lurk around as much as he used to, but he does find himself spending the majority of his time hidden away in the children's playroom in an attempt to escape the 'ooh-ing' and 'aah-ing'. Wednesday and Pugsley don't mind, only too happy to involve him in their dangerous games.

By now he's been exposed to so many Addamses that it's a wonder that he can tell them apart, but alas, Gomez and Morticia tell him that there is one more who he absolutely must meet.

Arm in arm, like the world's greatest lovebirds, they lead him into the living room. Wednesday and Pugsley follow along at a faster pace, apparently this relative is a particular favourite of theirs.

"Ah," Morticia begins pleasantly when she steps into the room, "Cousin It, it's so good to see you."

Pitch enters the room, hears an unintelligible voice respond, sees a being with more hair than anyone ought to have, and remembers.

It is sometime in the late 1980's and Pitch had been listlessly wandering through the countryside when he feels a sharp prick of fear and hears a child shriek.

He quickly makes his way to the location of the fear, but the child has already run away, leaving another one behind. He can't see much from his spot behind the one who was left, all he can really make out it their frankly astounding length of hair.

Their parents were probably hippies, Pitch shudders, he loathes hippies. Still, just because the unfortunate child has a pair of 'flower children' who've decided to never give them a haircut for parents, doesn't mean the other urchin had to run away screaming. Honestly.

"Children can be astoundingly cruel sometimes." He muses aloud and the small form in front of him makes a set of garbled noises, almost as if they were responding to him. But no, that can't be it.

In the present Pitch mutely holds out a hand in greeting, mind racing. 

This family, what was it about this family? It was like belief was in their blood. He cast a look about him, saw their content expressions, and thought again of the portrait he recognized in the upstairs hallway.

Maybe it was.


	3. Chapter 3

It is week seven when Wednesday approaches him while carrying what appears to be a centuries old tome. She holds it out to him and he takes it from her gingerly, running his fingers over the worn cover.

"And what is this?" He asks when she continues to stare up at him like she expects him to have some sort of miraculous epiphany.

"It's the journal of Anne Miller-Addams, the grandmother of Morgan Addams." She states and Pitch carefully opens the book, the handwritten pages are filled with notes about plants and spell compositions.

"I see." He replies, even though he doesn't.

"She mentions you towards the end." Wednesday explains, keen eyes watching as Pitch freezes momentarily. "She said she felt a presence while doing spell work and she glanced at you from the corner of her eye. Here," she directs Pitch to the page where he is mentioned, "she calls you a tall being of shadows with eyes of grey and gold."

Pitch skims over the handwriting and Wednesday looks up at him, obviously expecting a reaction.

"I have spent much time around witches, fear of the unknown was especially potent back in the day, I'm afraid I do not recall this particular instance."

She frowns, clearly this is not going how she planned.

"But you do remember Great Aunt Morgan and Cousin It, and if you came across Anne Miller-Addams too then maybe there are more of us that you've met over the years."

"Be that as it may," Pitch closes the journal and gives it back, "without a face to put to a name, it is difficult to tell."

Wednesday's lips curve upwards slightly and she takes Pitch's hand in her own, leading him to the family room.

"That's what photo albums are for, Uncle Pitch."


	4. Chapter 4

They flip through the most recent albums first and Pitch feels a strange burst of affection when they skim over family vacation photos. Only the Addamses would consider a visit to a place like Chernobyl to be a pleasant experience.

He stops at one photo of Morticia standing next to a woman who looks somewhat familiar.

"That's mother's cousin Melancholia," Wednesday says when she notices the way his eyes keep moving back to that picture, "she has terrible taste in men, Uncle Fester says they're always thieves or crooks."

She searches through a different album and finds a picture of Melancholia as a teenager.

Oh my, he remembers now.

He usually detests hiding in closets, much less room than under a bed, but beggars cannot be choosers. He is in the house of a true believer, so rare these days, and he can already hear a muffled, high pitched weeping. Maybe they're afraid of the dark, how sweet.

He's so caught up in planning the perfect entrance that he doesn't notice the distinct lack of fear in the air until he slowly slinks out of the closet after rattling the knob.

A teenaged girl looks up at him, tears and mascara streaming down her face.

"Why did he break up with me-hee-heeee?!" She wails uncontrollably and Pitch surreptitiously steps back into the closet and quietly shuts the door.

He was not made to deal with teenaged drama, true believer or not.

"I take it from the look on your face that you've encountered her before?" Wednesday questions and Pitch nods.

"Excellent, let's continue our search."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't wait to finally write the +1 part of this fic, hopefully I'll have it up by Monday at the latest.

They go far enough back that Wednesday can no longer inform him who's who with ease and are going through one of the last albums in their pile when Pitch sees a familiar face and downright recoils.

"Oh no, not him."

Wednesday eagerly scans the photos in front of her. "Who?"

"Him." Pitch wearily holds out a hand and taps at the face of a widely grinning man surrounded by a much more somber group of people. "He used to follow me around, tracked my movements so he could predict where I'd strike next. It took me a year to be rid of him."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"He wanted me to stop spreading nightmares."

The album slips out of Wednesday's fingers and her eyes widen in alarm. "No."

"I'm afraid it's quite true. There I'd be, sending terrifying dreams to all the wretched boys and girls and out of nowhere he'd pop up, politely asking me to stop and use my powers to send them sweet dreams instead."

They both shudder in unison.

"I think eventually his wife found out what he was doing and made him stop, either that or he died in one of the usual spectacular fashions of your family."

"I can't believe it." Wednesday looked down at her nameless ancestor's smiling face. "I know some of my relatives are a bit strange, but to try and stop nightmares?"

"There, there." Pitch patted her shoulder comfortingly. "I suppose there's a black sheep in every family." He picked the album back up and snapped it shut.

"But... Sweet dreams?"

"Don't worry about it my dear. Now come along, I'll weave you a particularly dark dream tonight and we can forget all about this."

She instantly perked up.

"Will you give me one about my teeth falling out? Mother is so very fond of those, she says the most horrid things about them."

"Of course."


	6. Chapter 6

Pitch lurks on the rooftop, not unlike a gargoyle, and watches as Wednesday, Lydia and Pugsely work together to make a snow mausoleum. It is a little too cold for this time of year, not to mention that they usually don't get this much snow but, he thinks as the wind gently murmurs past him, he's certain he knows why the weather's been acting up.

Jack Frost lands beside him silently. They've formed an easy sort of camaraderie over the past few years, so it's not too surprising for him to drop in and visit every once in a while. Occasionally he even ices the family's walkway, much to their delight.

"They grow up so fast, don't they?" The younger spirit begins softly. "Sometimes I feel like in the time it takes me to blink Jamie's aged another year." 

Pitch glances at Jack from the corner of his eye, he isn't usually so sentimental. 

"And how is young Mr. Bennet?"

"He's good, already in high school if you can believe it."

"I can." Pitch turns his gaze back down to the graveyard. Wednesday still has a year of high school left, but soon enough she'll be graduating, going off to college...

Pitch stomps down a lonely pang.

"It must be nice," Jack continues without prompting, "to know that, no matter how many years pass, they'll always be able to see you."

Ah, here lies the heart of the problem, he wonders what brought these dark thoughts on. 

"If you truly believe that Jamie is going to spontaneously forget all about you, you're more idiotic than I thought."

Jack chuckles dryly. "Yeah, but it's just... I don't want to lose him. The others, they don't really understand what it's like to have that one kid who means the world to you."

Like the first child who ever believed in you and could see you after 300 years of being invisible and alone, or the little girl who went against everything she believed in to write a letter to Santa and ask for her nightmares back.

"And it's not just that he may forget me. I'm immortal, one day I'll go to visit him, and he'll be gone."

Pitch sighs, this conversation is far too dreary, he'd better stop the angst-fest now before tears come into the equation.

"We cannot stop time from passing by Jack, but we can make the most of it."

"Yeah," Jack nods slowly, eyes lighting up, "yeah, you're right!"

"I usually am."

"Thanks Pitch, I gotta go, but I'll see you around." Jack runs and dives off of the roof, swooping right over the teenagers' heads as the wind carries him away. Pitch rolls his eyes and slinks down from the roof in a much more dignified manner.

"Was that Jack?" Pugsley asks from where he's laying the groundwork for their burial chamber. "Usually he sticks around longer, why did he leave so soon?"

"He had something very important to take care of." He reaches out and ruffles Pugsley's hair before moving towards the girls. Lydia is carefully sculpting snow bricks while Wednesday is staring down at blueprints her parents had given her.

"You know, I've been around a lot of graveyards in my time," Pitch begins casually, "I know a thing or two about mausoleums, if we combine forces we could make something that's truly a sight to behold. So how about it?"

Wednesday looks up from her papers and smiles. "Why, Uncle Pitch," she begins in an all knowing voice that Pitch has long since committed to memory, "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
